


An Interlude in the Baths

by Dragomir



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Despair, Drowning, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: Gul'dan keeps his promise.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ausmac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/gifts).



> A one-shot for Ausmac, who requested bathing. Takes place after chapter six of Survivor's Remorse.

Varian shuddered and gasped as the warlock who’d drawn the short straw pulled him out of the water by his hair.  He coughed and spat a mouthful of soapy water onto the smooth, slick stones of the bathhouse floor and gagged, retching at the taste of soap still in his mouth.  The warlock glowered at him, blue eyes glowing faintly with some demonic light, and Varian had a second’s warning to take a deep breath before he was shoved under the water again.  Hands tangled in his hair, jerking roughly at the knots and mats in his ragged mane of hair.  He screamed an inhaled a lungful of too-hot water when hair parted ways with his scalp, leaving behind a sensation not unlike having his back flayed.

Gul’dan had kept his word – a bath, for his favorite mongrel.

The demon had dumped him in the warlock’s enclave an hour ago, and the warlocks had immediately thrust the ‘drudge work’ off on one of their lower ranking members.  Never mind, Varian had thought sourly, that their _master_ had ordered them to do this.  (And somehow, being aggrieved over not being treated better because of Gul’dan’s favoritism of him as a pet was not as bothersome as it should have been.)

The ragged remains of his trousers and his underthings had been burned, and the warlock’s minions had promptly tossed him into a deep pool of near-boiling water.  Varian had once called baths this hot a blessing, especially after he’d been put back together and had the chance to bathe – he’d scrubbed himself raw, multiple times a week, those first few months when he’d finally been freed from the Crimson Ring.  (The grime had seemed to stay with him, no matter how much he tried to remove it.)  Now, though, he’d give just about _anything_ to be out of this bath and away from the warlock in charge of scrubbing the grime off.

He was jerked roughly up out of the water again, gasping and choking for air.  The warlock let go of his hair and Varian lay his head on the edge of the pool, chest heaving as he panted for air.  He could have sworn the warlock muttered ‘filth’ at him, but couldn’t bring himself to care.  He flexed his hands, wincing at the pull of the ropes binding his hands behind his back.  It had been deemed too risky to keep his hands free, when he might smash a warlock’s head into the edge of the bathing pool or make a break for it.

The warlock returned a scant few minutes later, bearing a bundle of cloth that might have been white at one point and were now dark grey and a shaving kit.  Varian closed his eyes, still panting as he recovered from being dunked multiple times.  His hair was no longer a matted mess, but it was tangled and damp – either the warlock had a brush in that kit, or his head was going to be shaved too.  (Anything but letting the tangles set after a bath.  They were _murder_ to remove, and he’d suffered more than one bad haircut when a comb had proven insufficient to remove the tangles.)

Varian flinched when the warlock lifted him out of the bathing pool with magic, and knelt on the ground when the tendrils of green released him.  He grunted at the impact on his knees, but remained kneeling where he had been dropped.  The warlock moved behind him, bare feet braced on the stone floor.  (All it would take to overbalance the warlock would be to rear back, snap his head against the warlock’s hip, and then he could-  _What_.  He could…run, back into a field of demons?  Back to Gul’dan, to be beaten and tossed back in that pit with that _thing_ crawling on him?)  Varian shuddered as the warlock grabbed a handful of damp hair and began jerking a comb through the wet strands, muttering under their breath all the while.  No doubt it was all dire threats and promises of pain beyond imagining – warlocks had a one-track mind, when they were unhappy.  The comb jerked through the tangles, taking more hair from Varian’s scalp.  He hissed, hands clenching into fists and tears pricking at his eyes, but he remained where he was as the warlock worked the tangles out without an ounce of gentleness in their motions.

Eventually, his hair lay in a damp curtain across his back, straight and as neat as it could be when it felt like half his hair had been ripped out.

“Head back, mongrel,” the warlock snapped, speaking to him for the first time since he’d been tossed into the bathhouse.  Varian tilted his head back, pulse pounding in his throat and temples as lather was applied to his neck, chin, and cheeks.  His pulse began pounding like an orc’s drum, thudding erratically in his ears as a razor began scraping along his neck, removing beard growth.  (He was grateful to have the beard gone; he’d always looked like a crazed bear when he’d tried to grow one, and Tif had eventually convinced him to stop trying.)

The razor blade paused under his ear, edge pressed perilously close to the vein.  If he twitched his head, he could sever it, and-

“I could, you know…” the warlock murmured, pressing the blade closer to the vein.  Varian stared unseeing at the warlock.  One little move, and he could be with Tif again…  “Of course, the master would torture me for it…”  The razor moved away from the vein, and Varian sighed softly as the thought of joining Tif in the Beyond died again.  The blade scraped gently along his face, the warlock’s gaze intent as the job was finished.  _If he’d just moved…_   The last of the lather was wiped away, and the warlock reached behind Varian to draw the razor across the ropes binding his wrists.

“Get dressed, mongrel.  The master still has plans for you.”

_If he had just moved…_

**Author's Note:**

> And many thanks to Mac for letting me borrow the 'demented bear' line from Last King of Stormwind.


End file.
